


Pas de Deux

by rhysiana



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Artist Steve Rogers, Badly Healed Shoulder Injury, Ballet!Bucky, M/M, Minor Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Slow Burn, The Realization That Life in One's 30s Doesn't Always Look Like One Expected in One's 20s, ballet!Natasha, single dad!steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-16 19:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11835789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhysiana/pseuds/rhysiana
Summary: In which Steve is a newly single father indulging his daughter's new obsession with ballet, Bucky and Nat are former stars of the Bolshoi now teaching at a DC ballet school, and no one is really quite as normal as they appear.





	Pas de Deux

**Author's Note:**

> So many people to thank! This started as "just a short little AU" idea from seeing a photoset of Chris Evans in _Gifted_ followed immediately by one of Hayley Atwell in _Conviction_ , and things spiraled waaaaay out of control after that. Hence, heartfelt thank yous to storiesfromtheden, dizzy-redhead, and hmslusitania for letting me ramble at them; to R (who will likely never read this) for watching CA: TFA specifically so he could give me actual military perspective on a no-powers Steve's motivations; to ktheunready for Bucky's Russian nickname; to jenroses and rembrantswife for the cheerleading when I got to the point I was just staring at the page in the middle of writing this; to Kevin for sending me six solid pages of Peggy Carter meta and comics-based intrigue inspiration; and to both Kevin and dizzy-redhead for extremely thorough beta-ing at the end. Clearly this was an endeavor that took a village; any mistakes that still remain are on me.
> 
> And, of course, HUGE thanks to my artist, [barnessergeant](http://barnessergeant.tumblr.com/), who was so sweetly enthusiastic about getting to claim my fic. Please go give her [art post](http://barnessergeant.tumblr.com/post/164385798095/pas-de-deux-by-rhysiana-steve-was-pretty-sure-he) love on Tumblr!
> 
> Bonus: Title banner by dizzy-redhead! <3

Steve was pretty sure he fell in love with Peggy Carter the first time she called him a “jumped-up colonial” after a surprisingly heated debate on the first day of their shared history seminar during his semester abroad. He never really stopped.

Which was really kind of the main problem he was having now, as he stood there next to her grave under gray skies full of ominous clouds that nonetheless refused to actually rain, as if they, too, knew this was fake. A grave with a casket under all this dirt, but no actual body. A funeral, but he would hold no wake. His supposed new status as a widower, instead of a man with a fresh divorce certificate. The need to appear to be in mourning, when really he was just angry. So angry. At the people who had threatened her life, certainly, but also at the apparently impotent law enforcement agencies that couldn’t do anything to adequately protect her that didn’t involve making her disappear. And at her. For making this decision without him, and then expecting him to accept it for his own good.

He still loved her anyway.

He felt his jaw clench as he stared at the flowers on top of the grave. This would all be so much easier if he didn’t.

The child in his arms shifted her head on his shoulder. He smoothed her hair back as the wind blew brown curls into his face, then returned his hand to rubbing comforting circles on the back of her black velvet dress. Peggy, of course, had bought it for her shortly before she… left. He wondered if she’d already known then.

“Daddy, can we go home now?”

“Yeah, Peanut, we can go home.”

He turned his back on his wife’s grave and walked, under the solemn gray clouds, to the black car waiting to take him and his— _their_ —daughter home. Alone.

***

“You know, man,” Sam said from where he sat beside Steve on the screened back porch, “most people, when they hire a babysitter, they actually go out.” He tilted the neck of his beer bottle slightly in the direction of the backyard and raised an eyebrow.

Steve sighed and took a pull from his own beer. “Sharon just wanted an excuse to come over and hang out with her cousin, because it’s not cool for a fifteen-year-old to want to hang out with a five-year-old. So now _we_ ,” and here he gestured with his own beer between the two of them, “are having adult conversation time. For which I am paying $20 an hour, so you’d better start being interesting.”

“Damn, you letting that girl gouge you like that? And your own family, too.”

“Peggy’s family.”

“That doesn’t make her any less your niece, too, you know.”

Steve huffed. “That is _not_ what I meant. I just meant she’s a Carter; she knows how to negotiate.”

“Ah. True.”

“I named the rate in this case, though.”

Sam shoved him lightly in the shoulder. “You big softie!”

Steve let the shove rock him and smiled slightly. “Yeah, well.” The smile faded and he took another sip. “What the hell else am I gonna do with Peggy’s money?”

Sam turned a more seriously considering eye on him and frowned. “Next time you hire a babysitter, we really are getting out of the house.”

Steve grimaced. “Yeah. Next time.”

Sam sighed and rested a hand on his shoulder for a minute, giving it a firm squeeze before he let go and launched into the latest gossip he’d picked up at the VA. “The gossip at the FBI is much better,” he’d confided once, “but I’m not allowed to tell you any of it. So you just get public gossip from VA coffee hours until you start showing up yourself. I’m just keeping you in the loop, man.”

In spite of himself, Steve was in fact now mildly invested in whether Raymond was ever going to ask out Yolanda at the front desk. He sometimes wondered if Sam would believe he’d magically gotten a life if he started watching a soap opera and reported on that.

An hour later, Sam reluctantly looked at his watch and said he had to go. “But I’ll see you for a run at the Mall on Monday, right?”

“If you call that running,” Steve said with the ghost of a smirk.

Sam narrowed his eyes at him, but gave him a goodbye hug and back slap at the door anyway. “Monday,” he said firmly.

“Monday,” Steve assured him. He then stood with his hand resting on the back of the closed door, head down, just for a moment, just for the space of one long sigh, before he made his way to the backyard again.

“You girls ready for a snack?” he called from the back door.

“Yes!” Mary Margaret yelled and jumped off the swing at the peak of its arc in a way that would never fail to make his heart stop briefly. Peggy had always laughed and told him he deserved no less, given that he had once jumped out of planes for a living. The smile froze half-formed on his face at the thought, and he hid his face in Mary Margaret’s hair as she jumped up into his arms for a fierce hug, as if he’d actually been gone and she hadn’t been able to see him sitting on the porch the whole afternoon.

He guessed they were both coping in their own ways.

He pulled back and gave her a kiss on the forehead before depositing her inside the door. “Go get washed up, then. You’ve been playing hard.”

She ran off toward the downstairs bathroom, and he turned, still holding the door open for Sharon.

“Uncle Steve?” she said tentatively.

He tried to summon up his most encouraging and least awkward smile for her. “What’s up, Sharon?”

“Um, well, it’s just, there was a thing Aunt Peggy and I had been talking about doing with Mary Margaret, but last year she was too young, so we thought we’d do it this year, but…”

“Tell me,” he said seriously, nudging her into the kitchen so he could shut the door. “I told you I didn’t have any sisters growing up. I’m relying on you here.”

Sharon’s cheeks flushed slightly. “I mean, it’s nothing _super_ girly or anything, but it’s kind of a Carter tradition to always go see _The Nutcracker_ at Christmas.”

Steve had a vague recollection of Peggy taking Sharon on “girls’ outings” to it in past years, which had apparently involved getting dressed up. “That’s a… play?”

Sharon rolled her eyes. “A _ballet_ , Uncle Steve, honestly.”

His smile this time was real. “I beg your pardon. I clearly have a lot to learn.”

“Obviously,” she sniffed, and actually tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder as she made her way to the kitchen sink to wash her own hands.

He smothered a grin. “So when should I get tickets for? I was never invited, so you’ll have to make sure I get everything right.”

She patted his arm in a manner he chose to tell himself was comforting and not condescending. “It’s okay, Uncle Steve, I got you.”

***

A date in early December was settled on, tickets were procured, and Mary Margaret and Sharon were whisked away to go shopping for fancy dresses with Sharon’s mother. When Steve tried to give Valerie money to pay for Mary Margaret’s, she just folded his hand back around it and kissed him on the cheek. “Let us do this one thing. This was always Peggy and Sharon’s special time together, and she’s taking doing it for Mary Margaret so seriously. The least Michael and I can do is buy the dresses.” She smiled wistfully. “Getting dressed up was always half the fun for them anyway.”

He swallowed and put the money back in his wallet.

Mary Margaret came home with an appropriately seasonal red velvet dress. “Sharon got green. And I got you this!” She proudly presented him with a red and green holly-patterned tie. “So we can match!”

“I’m so sorry,” Valerie mouthed over her head.

He just smiled and shook his head. “Thank you, Peanut, it’s perfect. I wouldn’t want to feel underdressed. I hear the ballet is very fancy.”

***

Steve had to admit, it was kind of fun to get dressed up to escort two excited girls to the ballet. (And for the look on Mary Margaret’s face when he held out his hand to her with a flourish to help her into the car, he would have worn any number of far more hideous ties.) Sharon was trying to maintain her cool teenage credibility, but was far too invested in making sure Mary Margaret was being properly introduced to the tradition to be convincing. Given the way Mary Margaret’s eyes went wide in awe at the chandeliers and Christmas trees in the lobby, and the way she clutched her program and ticket as they made their way to their seats, he was pretty sure it was already a success in any case.

And then the curtains rose, and the ballet began, and Steve understood. He understood why Peggy had started this tradition with her niece, after she and her brother had both ended up transplanted here to DC, raising children so far from the childhood they had known in England. Because he knew, had always known, that no matter how often Peggy insisted life in “the colonies” wasn’t nearly as primitive as she’d feared, and in fact had given her everything she’d ever wanted, the thing she missed the most was Christmas.

Steve had always liked Christmas himself, had enjoyed seeing New York bedeck itself in lights, had loved decorating a small tree in the apartment with his mother in Brooklyn, but with just the two of them, it had never been much of a production. But then he’d done Christmas with Peggy and her family in England, and it was an _experience_. The entire family home (old, with several generations of furniture crammed into it, somehow very quintessentially British in a way no American architecture ever quite managed to emulate) was strewn, swagged, and twined with greenery. He’d gone out to help her brother and one of their cousins shoot down real mistletoe. There’d been an actual Christmas pudding, complete with tokens baked in that he’d been terrified of swallowing by accident. He’d felt like a character in a period novel.

Looking at the stage, where Clara and the other children gathered around an enormous, elaborately painted Christmas tree to wait for Herr Drosselmeyer, he felt that way again. It was nostalgic and painful and complicated in the way everything he associated with Peggy was now. He glanced down at Mary Margaret and found her straining forward in her seat, little hands gripping the armrests. He had no idea if she’d associate the feelings of the performance with her mother or not, but clearly she was susceptible to its magic. And then the clock struck midnight and the Mouse King appeared and she was gripping his hand, and for the next two hours, he let himself get lost in it as well.

***

Two days later, Mary Margaret came running into the living room, occasionally interrupted by twirls and ending in a leap that landed her directly on Steve’s stomach where he was lying on the couch.

“Oof,” he said as his breath was forcibly driven out of his lungs, but she just settled herself to sit more comfortably on top of him. “What’s up, M&M?

“Can I send Santa a new list?”

He let his book drop onto his chest. “How much of a new list are we talking here? All new, or just some additions? Santa’s a busy guy, you know, he needs time to plan.”

“Just some additions.” She started bouncing her feet, and Steve was very glad he hadn’t given up his morning PT after he got out. “I want ballet shoes, and a sparkly skirt like the Sugar Plum Fairy, and a nutcracker doll, and…”

The obsession went on for weeks. Soon he was humming _The Nutcracker Suite_ even when Mary Margaret was at school, because whenever she was home, it was basically playing on loop. He’d downloaded some other classical pieces to mix in out of self-defense, but it was too late, it was stuck in his head. Possibly forever.

Christmas Day found Mary Margaret in a very sparkly tulle skirt, performing a ballet of her own design in the living room with Sharon in the middle of a Nerf gun battle between their other cousins. Steve collapsed on the bench beside Valerie and Michael in the breakfast nook, where they were all desperately trying not to draw any attention. He groaned when he caught the familiar strains of the Russian Dance even through the chaos.

“You know…” Valerie said thoughtfully.

He raised an eyebrow.

“She’s maintained this interest in ballet for a whole month now. That’s a long time for a five-year-old.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“And I know you’re always looking for ways for her to get out some of that energy.”

“Preferably without needing to use me as a jungle gym twenty-four/seven, yes,” Steve confirmed.

“You are not usually this dense, Steven,” she said, pointedly refilling his coffee cup. “There are such things as ballet schools. You should enroll her.”

Steve blinked. “Oh. Uh, yeah. How do I…?”

She patted his arm exactly the way her daughter had a month ago, when all this started. “After the holidays are over. I’ll get you the names of some good schools. I know some of the people at work have talked about their kids taking ballet around here.”

“And then she might listen to something other than _The Nutcracker Suite_?” he asked, somewhat desperately.

“Yes, dear, I’m sure.”

Michael, on her other side, looked entirely too amused. Steve glared at him over the rim of his mug as he raised it. “You be quiet. I know that look. Peggy used that look. It’s very loud.”

He grinned, and that too was painfully familiar. “Oh, no, I’ve lived through this age multiple times now. I have earned the right to feel smug.”

The chaos in the living room suddenly crescendoed into a full-blown argument over possession of a particular Nerf weapon. Michael rose with a sigh. “Behold your future.”

“Oh, no,” said Steve, with his own patented arguing-with-a-Carter grin, “I’ve only got the one.”

“You’re dreaming if you think that will save you,” Michael retorted, getting in that last word before being pulled into the fray.

Steve watched Mary Margaret, still very sparkly, launch herself off the couch onto her cousin Harry’s back and sighed. Given her parents, he figured Michael was probably right.

***

Given that “the people at work” Valerie had been referring to all worked at the British embassy, Steve really wasn’t sure why he was surprised by how… _fancy_ the Kirov Academy of Ballet seemed. With a small shake of his head, he opened the door and looked around for the office.

A passing woman with her red hair drawn up in a tight bun caught sight of him. She was wearing a leotard and tights with sweatpants rolled at the waist over top, which struck him as kind of casual, so he was most of the way to mentally classifying her as a student when she asked “Can I help you?” in a voice that had far too much authority. _Teacher, definitely_ , he thought. “I, uh, was looking for the office? They told me it was best to come in…” He trailed off uncertainly.

“Oh, sure, follow me,” she said, leading him to the office. There was no one else in it, but she moved easily behind a desk and gestured for him to take a seat. “Looks like Cathy’s out, but why don’t you tell me why you’re here, and I’ll see if I can help.”

“My daughter’s been obsessed with ballet since December, and my sister-in-law thought enrolling her in classes would be a good idea.”

“Ah,” she nodded, “ _The Nutcracker_ strikes again.”

He winced and she laughed. “No, no, it’s fine, there’s a reason it’s so popular.”

“Do you often get a lot of new students at this time of year?”

She tilted her head to the side thoughtfully. “Not really, actually. Most parents already have all their kids’ extracurricular activities pretty locked down for the year. Everything gets kind of locked to the school schedule.”

He could feel himself deflate slightly, even as he told himself it was fine, fine, everything was fine, he hadn’t told Mary Margaret about it yet, she’d never even know to be disappointed. “Oh, yes, of course, I should have thought…” He forced his back up straight again, and said briskly, “Well, if you could give me a brochure or a card or something, I’ll see about signing her up this summer.”

The woman pursed her lips as she studied him for a second, then leaned forward to grab a brochure off a stack on the desk. “I didn’t say it wasn’t possible,” she said as she handed it to him, “just that it was what most parents did.”

He accepted the brochure reflexively and blinked. That sounded good. Was it good?

She stood. “Come, Mr…”

“Rogers. Steve Rogers,” he hurried to fill in.

“Mr. Rogers, let me show you around. I’m Natasha, by the way,” she said on her way out the door.

“Nice to meet you,” he said as he followed her. He felt lightly bulldozed, and he was beginning to think that was probably the norm with her.

“I can’t give you a perfect picture of what to expect for your daughter right now, since she’d be in the evening classes, but you can still see the studios. Our full-time students have class right now, so you can get some idea.”

“You have full-time students?”

“Yes, grades 7-12. They can live on campus or commute in, as they would for regular school. They get both ballet and academic instruction here.”

“That sounds… intense.”

She laughed, and he thought he heard an edge to it. “Oh, this all sounds very reasonable to me. In Russia, I started living at the Bolshoi at age nine.”

He looked at her in surprise.

She shrugged with a graceful fluidity that did more to remind him she was a dancer than her attire did. “Ballet careers peak early, compared to most. These students,” she gestured into the studio they’d come to a stop next to, “have to start now if they want to seriously consider doing it professionally.”

He watched the class of teenagers through the window, some smiling and laughing, yes, but all with an air of focus that made them seem older than they really were. It was a look he’d seen before. “I know the feeling,” he murmured, half under his breath.

He felt more than saw the curious glance she shot him, but instead she resumed their tour, now telling him about the Vaganova method of instruction and why it was considered one of the most integrative teaching methods, producing some of the most well-known dancers in history. Even Steve recognized some of the names, and he’d never paid attention to ballet to speak of before December.

“Well, that certainly sounds very impressive.” He hoped he sounded like he knew enough about the subject to judge, but he was fairly certain that he’d failed spectacularly.

“It is, I promise,” she said, her amused smile confirming his fears, but she seemed good-natured about it, at least. “So, having now done my duty to show you we know what we’re doing, are you still interested in enrolling your daughter?”

“Yes.” Because, simple and direct as that was as a reply, it was the truth. He couldn’t care less if Mary Margaret wanted to become a professional ballerina, but if she wanted classes, he wanted her to have the best ones he could find. It wasn’t like he couldn’t afford them now.

He resolutely pushed that thought away.

“How old is she?” Natasha asked.

“Five.” Which of course was when his eye caught on the top of the description of the Preparatory Division classes, where it clearly said “ages 6-8.” He flushed. Goddammit, how many ways could he be caught unprepared here?

But Natasha just tilted her head at him again. “And when is her birthday?”

“March.” _Why_ did that always have to call up the memory of Sam teasing him about birthday sex? He was absurdly glad his face was already red for a different reason.

“Well, then,” she said, waving a hand, “we can just call that close enough. She’d be six if you waited to sign her up in the summer, after all. And,” here she flipped the brochure over to the back to point at the list of faculty, “it’s my class, so I get to make the call.”

 _Natasha Romanoff, Evening Program Instructor_ , he read. “Oh.” He looked back up at her, trying to understand why she would be making what seemed like so many exceptions for someone she’d just met, wondering if he came across as a particularly floundering parent, but he saw no pity in her gaze. Curiosity, yes, but also what appeared to be the plain desire to help. And if there was one thing Sam had been telling him over and over, since the last time he came back from overseas, since he resigned his commission, since Peggy… left, it was to learn to accept offers of help gracefully, in the spirit they’d been intended. “Thank you.”

“Look, you don’t have to decide right this minute. Since she’s technically a bit young, and we’re not right at the beginning of a session, why don’t you bring her in to visit? Then we can see how she fits in with the class.”

“That would be great. Thank you so much.”

“Perfect.” She led him back to the office and handed him a new student information packet. “Look through this, get a head start on the paperwork if you want, and I’ll see you both tomorrow at six.”

***

Thanks to her last-minute Christmas list additions, Mary Margaret did at least have tights, a leotard, and ballet slippers. _Hair should be worn in a tidy bun_ , the instructions also said, but he’d looked at their array of hair elastics and clips, then at the brush, then at his daughter already kicking her feet impatiently on the stool in the middle of the kitchen, and admitted defeat. He settled for a ponytail instead, which at least he could make neat, and called it good enough.

She’d seemed a little shy when entering the building, holding onto his hand tightly, but as soon as he figured out which room they were meant to be in and she saw all the kids, he barely had time to catch her jacket as she threw it behind her on her way across the floor to meet them. He was left hovering awkwardly next to the door, attempting to look absorbed in folding the jacket over his arm.

Natasha appeared by his side out of nowhere, and he did _not_ jump. He did not. He honestly had no idea how she’d managed to sneak up on him in a room full of people all at least a good foot shorter than her, and with bright red hair, to boot.

“Your daughter?”

“Yeah, Mary Margaret,” he said, nodding toward the kids. “Easy to spot, she’s the only one with untidy hair and a non-regulation leotard.”

She clapped him on the shoulder in a way that reminded him startlingly of Sam. “I’ll give you a pass this time, Rogers. A for effort, though. You staying?”

“Yeah, if that’s okay? I figured I should at least be here for the first time. I can wait in the, uh,” he gestured vaguely at the door, “lobby or wherever, though, if you think it’ll be distracting.”

“Nope, you’re fine.” She fished a folding chair out from behind the piano and set him up in the far corner of the room before clapping her hands to call the class to order.

Steve watched as Mary Margaret eagerly lined up at the barre with the other kids and listened attentively to all of Natasha’s instructions. Smiling, he settled back in his chair and pulled out his sketchbook.

***

It became a thing. For some reason, there was no coffee shop, not even a Starbucks, in this particular corner of DC (he was tempted to call it “godforsaken,” but there was a seminary basically across the street and he could feel his mother’s disapproval all the way from New York), so he took to dropping Mary Margaret off at the door to her class and then finding an out-of-the-way chair to do some work. In all honesty, he didn’t mind having to stay, because when he found his mind wandering, doing life sketches in a ballet school was far superior to any coffee shop.

Which was what was happening now. He’d tried working on a design concept for a client and then brainstorming ideas for a new painting of his own, but there was nothing. So wasn’t it fortuitous that a new group of people came walking down the hall just as he’d flipped to a new page in his sketchbook? His hand moved almost without him being aware of it as he tried to catch basic shapes, gestures, hair, the sense of movement, and then the group was splitting up, some heading for where Steve now knew the dressing rooms were, others to the exit, and the guy who seemed to be their teacher ducking into Mary Margaret’s class.

Steve looked down at the paper in his lap and found that he’d really only been sketching the teacher. He’d caught his face turned three-quarters away, hair drawn back in a half-up ponytail (Steve had learned so many hairstyle terms since he’d started staying home with his daughter), one high, sharp cheekbone and the edge of his jaw, the hint of muscled shoulders… well. He couldn’t fault his subconscious’s taste. Though actually… He drummed the end of his pencil on the sketchbook, trying to track down the source of the spark of recognition he felt. Had he seen the guy at the school before? He thought he would remember that.

He flipped back a few pages to find another rough sketch he could add detail to without having to think too much, hoping it would let his mind wander in the right way. Sometimes having such a good visual memory was a curse, because he could always remember that he’d seen someone before, but he’d only remember the when and where if he could _see_ it, and of course he could never make that happen when he wanted to. It must have been something fleeting but specific. He sighed. He’d probably remember just as he was falling asleep that night.

He managed to get so involved in the fleshing out the details of the sketch that he actually jumped when a shadow fell across the page and a voice, much closer to his ear than he expected, said, “The next Degas?”

“Holy god, they should start recruiting dancers for the special forces, how are you all so _quiet_?” Steve said as he looked up, straight into the face of the guy he’d just been obsessing about. He blinked. And then something about his intense blue eyes, the shape of his mouth, the way one piece of hair was falling over his forehead all clicked and Steve blurted out, “Oh, that’s where I know you from!”

The guy drew back a step in surprise, and some part of Steve’s brain set about cataloging the way he stood, the way his feet pulled instinctively into fifth position (Steve knew all the basic positions now), the way his arms crossed over his chest (and what that did to his shirt)…

“You’re from New York, right? Brooklyn?”

He received a cautious nod.

“There was a newspaper article about you. With a picture, which is why I remember. You… won a contest or something?”

The guy was staring at him in what Steve was now interpreting as shock. “It was when I was accepted to the Bolshoi,” he said faintly. “Why would you even remember that? It was almost twenty years ago.”

Steve shrugged and gestured to his sketchbook. “Like I said, there was a picture. And my mother wouldn’t shut up about that article for a week.” He gave a wry smile. “Apparently I was supposed to find you inspirational. ‘A boy from Brooklyn, Stevie, already living his dream!’”

The guy was now blushing high along his cheekbones in a way that made Steve wish he had his colored pencils with him. “Holy shit.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to freak you out. I’d just been trying to figure out why you looked familiar for like half an hour. Uh, Steve Rogers,” he said, holding out his hand.

“James Barnes,” the other guy said, shaking the offered hand. “Well, Bucky, more usually. James was too common.” And now it was apparently his turn to make a connection, because he blinked and added, “Oh! You’re Mary Margaret’s dad.” He finally seemed to register he was still holding Steve’s hand and abruptly let go.

Steve smiled. “I am. Were you helping with her class today?”

James—Bucky—glanced back over his shoulder at the studio with a fond look. “Yeah, Natasha likes to make sure the boys in the class, few as they may be, get to see a male dancer every so often.”

“I’m sure it’s good for all the kids in the class, boys and girls alike,” Steve said. “The Bolshoi… Natasha mentioned that, too. It’s a ballet school? In Russia? Is that where you know her from?”

Bucky nodded, and then folded himself down to sit comfortably on the floor in front of Steve, evidently deciding he had nothing better to do than entertain some poor, bored parent of a student. Not that Steve was complaining.

“Technically it’s the Moscow State Academy of Choreography,” Bucky said, and then rattled off something in Russian, “but no one ever calls it that; it’s just the Bolshoi Ballet Academy. Nat’s Russian, so she started there when she was nine, but they take international students for what we think of as the high school years, which is how I went.” He stretched one leg out in front of him and started pointing and flexing his toes. “They have these summer intensives in the US, in New York and Connecticut and some other places, and they can end up serving as auditions to go to the real Bolshoi if you’re lucky.” He shrugged. “I was lucky.”

Steve looked at Bucky, at the clearly honed and defined lines of his body, at the casually trained way he moved, and said mildly, “I don’t think it was luck.”

***

“So,” and just that one syllable from Nat’s mouth in that particular tone of voice had Bucky’s back stiffening in anticipation of what she was about to say next.

“Don’t,” he said flatly, refusing to look over his shoulder from where he was drying wine glasses over the sink.

“Don’t what?” she said, all innocence. Patently false innocence.

“Don’t start with the matchmaking again. Whatever it is, whoever it is, the answer is no.” He finished drying the glass and tossed the dishtowel over his shoulder, automatically switching the glass to his right hand to place it back in the high cabinet. Only then he realized what he’d done without thinking and rolled his left shoulder in irritation, irrationally annoyed that he’d apparently finally adjusted to life with only one fully functional arm.

He gripped the edge of the sink with both hands and was abruptly glad he’d already put the glass away, because he really wanted to break something right now.

Nat came to stand next to him and took a pointedly calm and dainty sip from her own glass. “I just noticed you talking to Mary Margaret’s dad after my class tonight.”

Bucky became absorbed in folding the dishtowel into perfect thirds. “Steve, yeah.” He hung the dishtowel back up neatly. “And I’m not washing that for you.”

She shrugged, elegant as ever, even when she was being a brat. “I’ve got it. So do you like him?”

He shrugged back. “We’re both from Brooklyn.”

“Oh, well then, what more do you need to know?” She rolled her eyes.

He lifted his chin. “New Yorkers know their own.”

A delicately curled lip eloquently expressed her disdain.

“He actually recognized me from the newspaper article they wrote when I was accepted to the Bolshoi.”

“Seriously?”

“He’s an artist. He blamed it on the photo getting lodged in his visual memory.” Oh no. Bucky could feel his blush returning. He was, had been, at least briefly, a world-renowned dancer, who had danced on stages all over the world. And yet here he was, reduced to a blushing idiot just by Steve’s memory of his mother pushing the article on him as an example. He wasn’t sure if it was just the reminder of the bright-eyed kid he’d been then, or how pleased Steve had looked when he’d been able to place where he knew Bucky from. Or possibly how appreciative Steve had looked when looking at Bucky now. Yeah, maybe that.

Nat nudged him with her shoulder. “Seems like he made an impression.”

“Oh, shut up. What point is there in any of this teasing anyway? He’s a parent. What’s more, he’s a _dad_. I’m sure he has a lovely wife waiting at home.”

“I don’t think so, actually,” Nat said thoughtfully.

Bucky shot her a look out of the corner of his eye.

“No direct confirmation or anything, but he came to sign Mary Margaret for classes up by himself, no mother has ever come to any of the classes…”

“Conflicting work schedule,” Bucky offered, feeling oddly defensive of Steve’s possibly nonexistent wife.

“He had me show him how to do her hair,” she retorted triumphantly, which was rather a high card to play, he had to admit. “Plus,” she added softly, “there was a note on her student info sheet that she’d answer to pretty much any nickname derived from Mary Margaret, but to please avoid Peggy.”

“Oh. Huh.”

“Yeah.”

They stood leaning against the counter in silence for a moment, contemplating just what might lie behind that kind of request.

Then Nat threw back the rest of her wine, handed Bucky her glass, and said briskly, “And on that happy note, I have to get going. I have an aerial class.”

Bucky looked at the clock. “What, now?”

“Clint penciled me into his schedule special,” she tossed back over he shoulder with the hint of a wink. “Don’t wait up.”

“I told you I wasn’t washing this glass!” he yelled after her as the apartment door swung shut. He sighed as he looked at the otherwise pristine kitchen he’d just finished tidying away and then washed the damn glass. At least it was a thing he could still do.

***

Bucky resolutely avoided all thoughts of Steve and his possible marital status… right up until the very next time he saw him.

“So, Steve,” purred Lorraine, a divorcee Bucky had also had the misfortune to be cornered by shortly after she first enrolled her daughter in Nat’s evening class, “I couldn’t help but notice you don’t wear a ring.” She leaned heavily on arm of the chair next to Steve’s, attempting (unsuccessfully, Bucky noted with vicious satisfaction) to draw his attention to her cleavage. “You’re such a dedicated father, bringing Mary Margaret to all these classes.”

Steve was leaning about as far away from her as he could without making it blatantly obvious, and Bucky didn’t miss the flash of anger that crossed his face when she invoked his daughter’s name. “Thank you,” he said stiffly. “I’m just doing what any parent should to encourage their child’s interests.”

“So admirable,” Lorraine murmured, laying a hand on his arm, at which point Bucky decided he had to intervene for the health of everyone involved.

“Oh, Steve, there you are,” he said, stepping around the corner to Steve’s other side, and god help him if he didn’t put a possessive hand on Steve’s shoulder. Bucky was a terrible person and definitely going to hell, but he found he couldn’t care less about the future disposition of his soul when he felt Steve relax back into his touch in relief. The frosty glare Lorraine shot him was an excellent bonus.

Then Steve stiffened again, and Bucky looked down at him in alarm, wondering what he could have done to cause the change. Steve looked concerned. “Is something wrong with Mary Margaret?”

“No! No, everything’s fine. Natasha just wanted me to ask you some questions,” and here Bucky cast around frantically for some plausible topic, “uh, about Mary Margaret’s paperwork.”

“Oh, sure,” Steve said easily, pushing himself up from the chair. Bucky led him away down the hall toward the office. Neither of them looked back.

“I don’t really have any questions,” Bucky said, closing the door behind them. “I’ve just dealt with her before, and you looked like you needed rescuing.”

“Thanks.” Steve shook his head in disbelief. “I really had no idea how to handle that.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow and gave Steve a very obvious once-over. “Really? This can’t have been the first time.”

“I…” Steve blushed fiercely and ran his hand up the back of his neck. Bucky half expected him to dig his toe into the carpeting and say “aw, shucks” next. Jesus. Did he seriously not know what he looked like? “I just never had to deal with it, I guess. Peggy and I got married right out of college, and I just… I never looked at anyone else.”

Ah. There it was. Nat had been right about the name.

“Is she…?” Bucky wasn’t even sure where he was going with that question and just let it peter out pitifully.

Fortunately, whatever ending Steve had chosen to read into it didn’t appear to have offended him too badly, though he did look pained as he glanced away. “Peggy’s… not with us anymore.”

“I’m so sorry,” Bucky said.

Steve waved him off. “Wasn’t your fault,” though something about the way he said it gave Bucky the distinct impression it was _someone’s_ fault. He filed that away to mention to Nat later.

Time for a change of subject, though, clearly. “We should stay in here for a while, just to throw Lorraine thoroughly off the trail, so tell me: What’s the thing you miss most about New York?”

“Pizza,” Steve sighed.

Bucky laughed. “Coney Island dogs,” he offered.

“Ooooh, good answer. I think, actually, I have a…” And then Steve was pulling out the sketchbook he seemed to carry with him everywhere and flipping back to nearly the beginning to show Bucky some scenes he’d sketched at Coney Island the previous summer. “Thought I might get a painting out of it, but I haven’t really managed anything decent from any of those studies.”

Bucky ran his fingers lightly over the sketches, marveling at how Steve had managed to catch so much of the light and movement in such simple pencil lines. He suspected it was a lot harder than it looked. “Looks decent to me.”

Steve just looked down and shrugged modestly.

Bucky told himself he did not find it adorable.

Bucky was a liar.

It wasn’t until Cathy came back and kicked them both out of her office that either of them realized a whole hour had passed.

***

The great things about sharing an apartment with Nat were many: sharing rent in an expensive city, always having someone around to keep him from disappearing too far into his head, continued constant access to the only person who would ever possibly understand his bizarre life, not having to wonder if he just spoke in English or Russian before he had coffee, and not having to abruptly adjust to life without his pas de deux partner even though they’d never share a stage again.

The current not-so-great thing about sharing an apartment with Nat was that they carpooled to the school and thus Bucky was always stuck waiting for her to be done in the evenings, which left him bored and alone and surrounded by dance (though, honestly, when were they ever not surrounded by dance?) and with overly tempting access to empty practice rooms if Nat hadn’t given him something to do for her kids.

Nat had not given him anything to do.

He had all his old solo music on his phone.

There was a sound system dock in this room, and he knew how to use it.

Things had escalated quickly.

It was dark outside and he’d only turned on half the lights, leaving him in a warm cocoon of stillness and himself and the music. And he danced.

His wouldn’t say his mind exactly went blank when he danced so much as it became intensely focused on his body and his movement and how he was moving through space to such an extent there was no room for any other thoughts. God, he’d missed this.

It was, of course, entirely inevitable that it would be at his favorite part of the choreography that his body would choose to betray him.

He didn’t know why he’d expected anything different.

***

The studios were actually fairly well soundproofed so sounds from one lesson wouldn’t interfere with the one next door, so Steve really couldn’t say the music had drawn him in. But he had been fairly bored and was having a restless day, one in which he couldn’t sit still, not even to draw, to save his life, so he’d been roaming the halls of the public area, and had noted the faint glow from one of the back practice rooms with interest. And yes, when he got close enough, the music did draw him in, being something far faster and more dramatic than anything ever used in Mary Margaret’s class, which tended mostly toward bog-standard Mozart.

When he drew even with the door and could see through the window, he had no problem standing still. He didn’t actually think he could have moved away if he’d tried. Because there, in that room, Bucky was dancing. No. Flying. Soaring. Throwing himself away from the floor and just… defying gravity, as far as Steve could tell. His hands went for his sketchbook without any direction from his brain.

Bucky must have been at it for a little while, because he’d stripped off his shirt, and while Steve hadn’t felt like his artist’s eye had missed much with the fairly tight t-shirts Bucky wore to work, this, watching the actual play of the muscles in his back and arms under the warmly glowing half-lights… this was better. He was even wearing knicker-length tights today, instead of the yoga pants he sometimes favored, so there was nothing to disguise the power of his thighs as he jumped and then seemed to hang in the air, arms and legs extended, spine long and arched, looking like he’d never come down.

When he fell, it was so elegant, so controlled, Steve at first thought it was a deliberate part of the choreography. A bird shot down in flight, perhaps. It was over so fast, Steve had only the barest impression of Bucky’s left arm extending behind him in the air and then doing something _wrong_ in the way it twisted, before Bucky was landing hard, clearly harder than he’d meant to, and stepping completely out of the music as he grimaced in pain.

Steve dropped his sketchbook and tore open the door just in time to hear Bucky grit out something Russian from between his teeth that was unmistakably a curse and probably one Steve should be glad he couldn’t understand. He froze once he was in the studio, not knowing what help to offer, and just watched as Bucky paced in a small circle, left arm still above his head, right hand supporting it at the wrist. It still looked wrong somehow, not obviously bleeding or broken or any of the other injuries Steve was more intimately familiar with, but clearly still extremely painful. And then, suddenly, it seemed to… fall back into place. Bucky sighed in relief and let go of his wrist, carefully to fold it back down, like a broken wing, until he could cradle it against his chest.

Steve took another step forward. “Bucky?” he asked tentatively.

Bucky looked up at him from under a sweaty lock of hair that had fallen across his face, blue eyes startled, chest still heaving with exertion.

“Are you okay? I mean, obviously not, but is there anything I can do?”

Bucky blinked, releasing Steve as if from a spell, and it was then that Steve’s eyes flicked over to Bucky’s shoulder in concern and he noticed the scars. And the tattoo, which he’d absently noted earlier and he was sure he’d find in his sketches later, but mostly the scars. Straight and clean, they were clearly surgical, but they ran the entire front length of his shoulder, one of them nearly six inches long, and overlapping in places, repeated attempts at repairing the same thing, if Steve was any judge. When Bucky hunched slightly away from him, Steve could see other scars on the back side, though none as big.

“Ice,” Bucky said, tone clipped.

As Steve well knew, that tone could be directed either at Steve, for seeing any of this, or at his shoulder, for being injured. Possibly both, but Steve was hoping it was just at his shoulder. “Do you want help?” Steve hated not knowing what to do. He just needed Bucky to give him the slightest hint of direction here, and then he would be _on it_.

Bucky stalked over to the music dock in the corner and viciously stopped the piece that had continued on without him, ripping the phone out of the jack and throwing it in his bag. “Yeah,” he said, “come on. Trying to fill a bag of ice with one hand is a pain in the ass anyway.”

Steve followed him through a door at the end of the practice room hallway into what must have been the part of the school for the non-dance parts of the curriculum, including, as it turned out, the cafeteria (or dining hall, or whatever a fancy live-in ballet school called such a thing). Bucky shoved through the swinging door grumpily and led Steve directly to the industrial ice machine. “There’s plastic bags in that cabinet just there,” he said, indicating with his head, right arm still cradling his left at the elbow.

There was also, Steve noticed, a big stack of plastic buckets next to the ice chest, and the plastic bag stock seemed extensive. No strangers to injury, then, dancers. Steve rummaged until he found a bag of the right size, filled it, tied it off, and then cast around for a towel or something to wrap it in.

Bucky sighed and held out his hand. “Just give it. I know everyone says not to apply the ice directly, but whatever, I won’t do it for long.” He grimaced at a sudden thought. “I’ll have to put my shirt back on to go home, after all.” Tentatively, he rolled his shoulder. “Of all the days not to bring a change of looser clothes.”

Steve handed over the ice and watched Bucky apply it with a small hiss. His shoulder wasn’t visibly red or swollen, so he wondered what had actually happened, but just now he had an actual problem he could solve: a shirt for Bucky. “You can take my hoodie.”

Bucky just blinked at him.

“It’s back with my stuff. Zip-up, so you shouldn’t have a problem getting it on.” He grabbed a box of plastic wrap to fix the ice in place once Bucky had the sweatshirt one and held open the kitchen door for Bucky to precede him back to the studio. Once there, he handed Bucky the dark blue sweatshirt he’d had slung through the strap of his bag and then hovered unnecessarily while Bucky put it on, easing his bad arm in first. (He did _not_ reach out to help Bucky pull it on his other arm, and he most certainly did not zip it up for him. But he wanted to.)

Steve was admittedly a lot less honest with himself than he tried to be with other people, but even he had to acknowledge that it wasn’t because he was in dad-mode, either. Was it so wrong to want to wrap an attractive man up in a soft blanket and take care of him? …Okay, maybe Sam was right, he needed to get out more.

Bucky zipped the hoodie about halfway up and rubbed at the sleeves. “Oooh, soft. I’m sorry, but you may never get this back.”

It was honestly one of Steve’s favorite sweatshirts, but he suddenly found he just did not care. At all. To avoid saying anything unforgivably awkward, he just smiled and held up the ice and plastic wrap. Bucky dutifully held his arm far enough away from his body that Steve could wrap everything into place.

Then he shivered. And Steve literally _could not_ stop himself from tugging that zipper up the rest of the way. Oh, this was bad.

But all Bucky said was, “Thanks.” Then he caught sight of the clock in the studio. “Mary Margaret’s class is about to end. Guess we should go.”

Steve started at the reminder and set to gathering up all his stuff. Bucky likewise grabbed his bag from the floor, carefully keeping his left arm crossed over his chest, and they walked back to the kids’ class studio in silence that felt companionable rather than awkward, thank goodness.

The door opened and Mary Margaret was the first through, throwing herself into Steve’s arms. “Daddy!” She gave him a big kiss on the cheek, followed immediately by, “Did you bring my snack?”

He rolled his eyes. “I see how it is,” he said, pulling the fun-sized packet of peanut M&Ms out of the side pocket of his bag. She grabbed them and hopped down, running off to show one of her friends.

Bucky was watching him, looking bemused. Steve shrugged. “She was with me in the grocery store when she was three and pointed at them in the checkout line with a ‘Look, Daddy, that candy has my name.’”

Bucky nodded sagely. “So you bought them.”

“How could I not?”

“Daddy!” Mary Margaret was back and tugging at his shirt.

“Yes, Peanut?” he asked without thinking, and then turned bright red.

“Where’s my jacket?”

Wordlessly, he handed it over, and she darted off again.

Bucky was biting his lip. “Peanut?” he mouthed.

“Shut up,” Steve muttered.

“That is the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever heard,” Bucky said, clearly practiced at judging just how quiet he had to be to get away with cursing around kids. Which was not a thing Steve should find sexy.

Fortunately Natasha chose that moment to herd the last of the children out of the studio. She stopped short when she caught sight of Bucky.

“Oh, Бублик, not again.”

He sighed and tossed her the keys from his bag. “Guess you’ve gotta drive us home.”

She stepped forward to kiss him on the cheek. “Just let me go change.”

Bucky smiled wanly after her.

Steve suppressed a sigh. Ah well. He’d just have to settle for admiring Bucky aesthetically and appreciating his sense of humor. He turned away to watch Mary Margaret say goodbye to her friends, then took her cheerfully offered hand as she skipped out to the car to go home.

***

Bucky hated it when his shoulder went out, because it always, _always_ happened when he thought he’d gotten settled into accepting his limitations and he had a handle on things. And then he’d do something like change his shirt, or gesture too emphatically while lying on the couch talking to Nat, or, god forbid, dare to actually dance again, and he’d suddenly feel that sickening twist and roll inside his shoulder and a few seconds of searing pain as the ball hung on the front edge of the socket until he could convince it to fall back into place. It didn’t even do him the courtesy of being a real dislocation, it was just this not-quite, halfway, as-good-as-we-can-make-it bullshit injury that left him at ninety percent of a functional person, but unfortunately that last ten percent held all the parts that had ever given him meaning.

“God, you’re so dramatic,” Nat said, standing exasperated in the doorway to his room. Where, yes, he was lying in the dark watching old videos of their performances. But his shoulder was going to be sore and largely immobilized (if he was smart) for at least the next three days as all the muscles around the joint got over their momentary abuse, and he was extra grumpy this time because he shouldn’t have been attempting that solo in the first place, so he had no one but himself to blame, and he _hated_ that feeling. It made him want to hit things. Which was another thing he couldn’t do right now.

Nat had already forbidden him from going to work. “You’ll just scare the kids. No one needs that.” He’d only growled at her and burrowed deeper into the pillows stacked up behind him.

Now he tugged the hood of Steve’s sweatshirt up over his head and let it hide as much of his face as possible. She tsked at him in displeasure and pushed herself away from the doorframe. “Fine, whatever, sit here like some sort of troll. I’m meeting up with Clint after work anyway.”

“Can you bring me more ice?” he called pitifully as she flounced away.

“No!”

***

Steve looked at his phone with suspicion. He didn’t recognize this number, and this wasn’t his business line.

“Hello?”

“Steve?”

“Yes? …Natasha?”

“Oh, yes, sorry. I abused my access to Mary Margaret’s file to get your number. Listen, could you do me a favor?”

“What kind of favor?” he asked cautiously.

“I need you to go over to my apartment and pry Bucky out of his room by whatever means necessary.”

Steve took the phone away from his ear and looked at it in disbelief. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I need you to babysit Bucky.”

“I don’t… why are you calling _me_?”

“Because you’re the only topic that doesn’t make him more morose, and I can’t take him sulking in his room anymore. _Please_.”

There were so many implications in that sentence that Steve didn’t know what to do with. Of course, what came out of his mouth was, “Wait, _his_ room?”

“Yes? Oh my god, we’re not _together_ , we’re roommates. He was my dance partner from the Bolshoi, so we’re just used to sharing space, but seriously, I cannot handle him when he gets all broody like this. I would sell him to a circus, but Clint assures me they don’t want him.”

Steve had never been in charge of this conversation, clearly. “Who’s Clint?”

“My boyfriend. Who I am meeting after work, which leaves Bucky too many hours to sulk unsupervised. Can you do it?”

“Well, I, uh, I have to pick Mary Margaret up from school at three…”

“Great, cool, he likes her, too, you can take him back to your place, and I’ll get him on my way home. I just can’t stand to hear the scores from our old performances one more time.”

Steve sighed and gave in to the inevitable. “What’s the address?”

***

Someone was knocking on their door. No one ever knocked on their door. The lobby door downstairs had a security code and everything. If it was a neighbor who had locked themselves out, Bucky was hardly fit company. He’d just pretend he wasn’t home.

“Bucky? Natasha sent me. I know you’re in there.”

Bucky froze in the middle of turning around to go back into his room. Silently, he crossed to the door and looked through the peephole. Then he threw back the deadbolt and opened the door.

“Steve?”

“I’m told you’re sulking and I have to kidnap you for your own good. Nice sweatshirt, by the way.”

Bucky looked down and confirmed he was, in fact, still wearing his oldest sweatpants and Steve’s hoodie. Sadly, the floor showed no signs of opening up to swallow him.

“Uh, do you want to come in?”

“Sure. I’m actually under orders to take you to my house, though. I think Natasha has set you up on a play date with Mary Margaret.”

Bucky buried his face in his one good hand and closed the door behind him by the expedient of just collapsing against it. “I need new friends. Better friends. I’ll need someone to replace her after I murder her.”

“I dunno, pal, I think you might be stuck with her.”

Bucky dropped his hand from his face with a sigh. “I know. I guess I should go…” he gestured vaguely toward the hallway, “…change. I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time,” Steve said, already turning slowly to take in their living room.

Bucky slipped back into his bedroom hoping they hadn’t left out anything too embarrassing. And wondering what normal-person non-dance clothes he should wear around Steve when he’d never seen him anywhere outside the dance academy before. He really was going to murder Nat, and he’d be _creative_ about it, too.

When he came back out into the living room to search for his shoes, Steve was standing to the side of one of the bookshelves, studying something intently. Bucky bent down to fish his shoes out from under the couch and then leaned over to see what Steve was looking at.

“Oh.”

Steve turned. “This is gorgeous,” he said, with utter seriousness.

Bucky came to stand beside him and really looked at the picture again. It was him and Nat in a [balance pose](https://photogrist.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/10/NYC-Dance-Project9.jpg), him up on the balls of his feet, her essentially kneeling on his thighs as they gripped each other’s shoulders, foreheads touching, and leaned back, front arms held out and back like wings. He remembered finding that perfect point of combined stillness and dynamic tension, when he felt like they could hold it for as long as the photographer needed without particular strain. He’d felt exquisitely aware of his whole body, had so much confidence in it, in himself, in Natasha, in their future. It had been... fun. He could barely remember what that felt like anymore.

“It was part of a photography series. ‘The Art of Dance’ I think it was called. They had dancers from all over the world involved. Got turned into a coffee table book and everything.”

“I’ll have to try to find a copy,” Steve said.

Bucky looked at him sharply, but he didn’t appear to be teasing. Bucky cleared his throat and looked away. “So did you want to leave now, or…?”

“I mean, we don't have to get Mary Margaret until three, so it’s your call, really. I was just told you weren’t allowed to stay in your room anymore.”

Bucky looked around the apartment and then shook his head decisively. “No, I’ve been in here long enough. Let’s go.”

***

Steve’s house was, well. Bucky really wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but everything about it seemed very fitting. Traditional and homey, but with enough modern lines to everything to keep it from looking like some sort of 1940s movie set. There was, of course, kid stuff everywhere, but the art on the walls all looked to have been chosen with a discerning eye, which Bucky didn’t find in the least surprising.

He gestured at a larger painting on one wall of the dining room. “Yours?” It looked vaguely Impressionistic, harsh desert mountains softened by a sunset sky above and a grassy plain below, red flowers sprinkled across it.

Steve glanced over on his way into the kitchen. “Oh. Yeah.”

Bucky turned back to admiring the colors of the sky.

“You want a drink?” Steve called, head in the fridge. “I can offer beer, water, uh, Capri Sun…”

“Water would be good, thanks,” Bucky answered absently. “Where is it?”

Steve returned to the dining room and handed Bucky a glass. “Hmm? Oh, nowhere.”

Bucky looked over at him in surprise. “But it looks so real.”

Steve huffed a laugh. “Well, thank you for that. What I meant was it’s not an actual place, more the _idea_ of a place.” He paused for a moment, looking at the painting and taking a sip of his own water. “There’s this philosophy I heard about in an art history class back in college from traditional Chinese art, where you’re supposed to paint a landscape that’s the ideal representation of the place you’re thinking of. Like an archetype. A perfected distillation of it.” He shrugged. “That was supposed to be a distillation of, um, areas where I served.”

Bucky tilted his head as he looked at the painting again, taking in its placement. “And you put it in your dining room?”

Steve quirked a wry smile. “Weird, I know. But it’s a good painting… and it reminds me of the reasons I retired.”

Bucky looked a question at him again.

“I was so idealistic when I joined the Army. I mean, I had a degree in political science, so I wasn’t completely naïve, but I believed we were overall doing the right thing. When I resigned my commission, I told them I was retiring for the sake of my family, you know, to help raise Mary Margaret now that Peggy’s career was taking off, but really? I was giving them everything, not just for me, but for my family, for the country, for the people we were trying to help. I always assumed I’d be career military, but… there were so many decisions being made that directly contradicted the advice of the people on the ground, too many places we were being sent for politics rather than actual need. That wasn’t what I signed up for. That was the first thing I painted after I was out. I guess, in a way, it’s a distillation not only of the places I saw, but of who I wanted to be, then. Who I didn’t get to be.”

Bucky’s good hand drifted up to his left shoulder, unconsciously moving to the star tattooed there. “I know what you mean,” he said softly.

Steve, of course, noticed. “Why a star?”

Bucky felt his lips thin and gave a one-shouldered shrug as he looked away. “I was angry, after the last surgery, when they said it was the best they could do. It was like… I had sacrificed my shoulder to Russia, to ballet. It had been the only thing I was working toward my whole life, and now it was gone. I was making a melodramatic point.”

Steve snorted an involuntary laugh, and Bucky smiled.

“Well,” Steve offered, “at least you have a sense of humor about it?”

“Not much of one,” Bucky pointed out honestly. “After all, Nat sent you to rescue me from my own wallowing.”

Steve just shrugged that comment off. “So, you want a tour?”

“Sure.” Bucky felt a brief moment of awkward panic, wondering if he should have offered Steve the same, but then assured himself that Steve’s self-tour of the living room was equivalent. It wasn’t that big of an apartment.

“Okay, so, dining room, kitchen, and a living room that only moderately resembles an exploded toy chest at the moment are all presumably obvious,” Steve said, pointing as he walked them through the living room. He opened a door on the far side. “Office, where we sequester all the boring adult things.”

Bucky’s gaze was immediately drawn to the framed diplomas on the wall behind the desk, “Margaret Carter” inscribed in elegant calligraphy under the pretentious font of a law school. But before he could write the room off as a place Steve hadn’t been able to bring himself to clean out since his wife’s death, he noticed the bookshelves on either side, crammed full of law books, but also books on history (US, British, Latin American, Middle Eastern, and that was just what Bucky could see on quick glance) and foreign affairs, and then, on the bottom shelf where there was a slightly bigger space, oversized art books. This hadn’t just been her office; they’d shared it, it was _their_ space. Thinking about the ease with which Steve had opened the door, Bucky would bet good money it still was.

Wasn’t that interesting.

But then the next room was Steve’s sun-filled studio, and Bucky was immediately diverted from that train of thought. He was leaning over to flip through some of the canvasses leaning against the wall when Steve interrupted him.

“Want me to do your hair?”

Bucky just blinked up at him. Those words did not compute.

Steve blushed but forged ahead. “It’s just… that’s the fifth time I’ve seen you push your hair out of your face, and I’m assuming it’s only down because you can’t raise both arms right now, because you always seem to have it back at the school, and I just… I could do it for you. If you want.”

“I, uh, yeah, that would be great, actually.”

Which was how Bucky found himself sitting in a kitchen chair, looking out at Steve’s enviable backyard, complete with a rather deluxe-looking swing set, trying desperately not to purr or push up into Steve’s hand as he brushed out Bucky’s hair and drew it back into a half-up ponytail. But he didn’t think he was imagining the way Steve lingered over the task, either.

Before he could decide if he should actually do anything about it, though, a chime went off on Steve’s phone and he looked up at the clock. He cleared his throat as he put down the brush. “Time to go get Mary Margaret.”

***

Steve wanted to give himself a stern talking-to about feeling so relieved when his reminder alarm went off, but taking it slow was an admirable thing, right? He was a widower in mourning, supposedly; wouldn’t do to look suspicious. Or callous. _Quit fooling yourself, Rogers_.

The walk to the school was pleasant. Steve enjoyed the remaining slight chill in the air; winter never seemed to happen properly in DC, so he took what he could get. And if what he could get included Bucky wearing broken-in jeans, a Henley, and Steve’s sweatshirt (which he’d apparently been serious about never giving back) under a leather jacket, well, so much the better.

“I like DC, but I really miss real snow sometimes,” Bucky sighed in such a perfect echo of his own thoughts he wondered if he’d spoken out loud without realizing.

“Same,” Steve said, and told himself not to read too much into it. _Peggy used to read your thoughts like that_ , his treacherous brain offered. He told it firmly to shut up.

They were waiting on the sidewalk when the side door of the school slammed open and kids started pouring out. Steve just rolled his eyes when he heard the familiar cry of, “Walk, Mary Margaret!” and braced for impact.

“Hi, Daddy!” She then looked around his hip. “Hi, Mister James! Why are you here?”

“Mister James hurt his arm and Miss Natasha wanted us to look after him this afternoon.”

“Oh my god,” Bucky muttered under his breath. “Hey, guys, how about we make a new rule that you can just call me Bucky when we’re not at ballet?”

Mary Margaret frowned and Steve held his breath, suddenly worried she was picking up on feelings he might be harboring that he’d scarcely acknowledged to himself.

“How do you get Bucky from James?” she asked.

Steve released his breath and tried not to laugh hysterically.

Bucky raised his eyebrows.

“We’ve talked a lot about nicknames,” Steve explained.

“Yeah, I’ve got lots and lots.”

“Ah. Well, that’s because Bucky is from my middle name, Buchanan. There were too many Jameses in my class at school when I was a kid.”

“Oh.” Mary Margaret nodded sagely in understanding. “We’ve got four Emmas and two Noahs right now.”

Bucky started singing “27 Jennifers” under his breath and Steve cracked up.

Mary Margaret grabbed a hand from each of them (fortunately getting Bucky’s good one, Steve was relieved to note) and started hop-skipping them towards home. “We learned a new song in music class today! Wanna hear it?”

“Sure thing, Peanut.”

It was a good afternoon.

When Natasha showed up later to pick Bucky up, she gave him one long, evaluating look, and then socked Steve in the shoulder. “Nice work, Rogers.”

This caused Steve to blush, of course. “I didn’t do anything,” he said crossly.

“You keep telling yourself that,” she threw back over her shoulder with a wink as she herded Bucky to the car.

***

“She’s not dead,” Bucky said as he flopped down on the couch.

Nat calmly finished hanging up her coat, put her keys on the table by the door. “Who?”

“Steve’s wife. She’s not dead.”

Nat cocked her head slightly to the side, and he could see her running through every conversation she’d ever had with Steve in which he’d mentioned his wife. Of course, that would hardly be difficult; he scarcely mentioned her, but they’d all put that down to grief. “He always says ‘she’s gone’ or ‘she went away,’ doesn’t he?” she said thoughtfully.

Bucky nodded, then raked a hand back through his hair as it fell in his face. The band Steve had used to put it back was now around his wrist, and he resisted the urge to snap it. “His house, her office, I can’t explain, but it’s not a shrine to her. He’s waiting for her to come back. He knows she’s still alive.”

“There was an obituary, though,” Nat said, because of course she’d done her research.

Bucky shrugged and let his head fall back against the couch cushions. “Boris observation.”

“Really?”

He opened one eye to glare at her.

She held up her hands in defeat. “No, I believe you. You always brought him rock solid intel, even if you couldn’t fully explain it.”

He closed his eye again and grunted in acknowledgement.

“So what do you want to do about it?” she asked, sounding genuinely curious.

“Hell if I know,” Bucky said. One thing he did know was that Steve Rogers was not as uncomplicated as he appeared on the surface.

Bucky was probably a bad person that the thought made him grin a little.

***

“Sooooo,” Sam drawled obnoxiously in Steve’s ear, leaning over from his chair on the porch to look over Steve’s shoulder, “who exactly is this dude you’ve spent the last half hour lovingly shading?”

“Fuck off,” Steve replied, shoving Sam’s face away.

“Captain! Language. There is a child here!”

“She’s on the other side of the yard.” Currently shrieking at the top of her lungs as she slew a dragon, it sounded like.

“Seriously though, man, who is he?”

Steve sighed. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

Sam took a sip of his beer and smiled. “Nope.”

“He works at Mary Margaret’s ballet school.”

Sam looked at the sketch of Bucky, frozen in an obvious dance pose. “No shit.”

“We grew up in Brooklyn at the same time.”

“Oh, well then, say no more, you’re clearly soulmates!”

Steve groaned in frustration and threw his eraser at Sam. “I need better friends,” he said, and as a threat it probably would have been more effective if he hadn’t heard himself echoing Bucky from the day before and ended up grinning like an idiot.

Sam chucked the eraser back at him. “You’ve got it bad.”

Steve looked at the sketch in his lap. “Yeah, okay, maybe.” He looked across the yard at Mary Margaret, hanging from the sidebar of the swing set and stabbing at the air with a stick. “Is it… do you think it’s too soon?”

Sam sat back his chair and shrugged easily. “Eh. This shit doesn’t follow rules, and your situation is… complicated. I don’t think there’s any kind of handbook for this. Just go with your gut.” He slanted a look at Steve out of the corner of his eye. “You’re usually pretty good at that.”

Steve just nodded in acknowledgement, suddenly feeling the kind of exhilaration he’d only felt before when jumping out of planes. Go with his gut. He could do that.

He was trying to figure out exactly _how_ to do that when Sam’s phone pinged. Steve turned his attention back to his sketchbook and his own swirling thoughts, used to Sam being perpetually on-call, but then Sam’s hand landed on his shoulder, tightening in alarm.

Just like that, Steve was on full alert. “What is it?”

Sam was sitting up straight, one hand still on Steve’s shoulder, typing furiously on his phone with the thumb of the other. “You remember my friend? The one I said was going to _call me_?”

Steve nodded sharply at the emphasis. _At WITSEC_ was what Sam wasn’t saying. After so many months of living like Peggy was actually dead, Steve had become a master of not saying things, falling back into a specifically focused type of hypervigilance he thought he’d left behind. He was pretty sick of it.

“He says he ran into this girl you know from college.”

Steve’s pencil snapped and he clenched his jaw, breathing through his nose for a second until he thought his voice would come out level. “Yeah? How’s she doing?” The likelihood that his backyard was bugged was minimal, but he and Sam knew better than to risk it.

“Oh, you know. Out and about. Apparently decided to do some solo traveling.”

Of course she had. As if getting impatient with bureaucratic red tape and deciding to take matters into her own hands hadn’t been what got her into this mess in the first place. Not that Steve hadn’t skirted close to severe disciplinary actions for the same reason on more than one occasion or anything… God, they were too alike sometimes. He wanted to strangle her; he wanted to jump out of his chair and go help her with whatever harebrained scheme she’d cooked up _immediately_.

“Hey, man, I should head into the office for a while,” Sam said, still striving to sound casual. “I’ll catch you later, all right?”

Steve wasn’t sure how long he sat frozen in his chair, trying to stop himself from doing something rash. He couldn’t afford that, not when it was so likely he was being watched. He focused on Mary Margaret and reminded himself of everything that was at stake here.

She came running up onto the porch and climbed into his lap. “Did Uncle Sam have to leave?”

“Yeah, baby, he had to go to work.”

She pouted. “It’s Saturday! His job is stupid.”

He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. “Well, it’s a pretty important job, protecting people, so we’ve got to learn to share him sometimes, okay?”

She crossed her arms and settled herself back against him grumpily. “I guess.”

He hummed a vague encouragement of her grudging acceptance and acknowledged to himself he wasn’t going to get through the rest of the day without snapping. “Hey, what do you think about a sleepover at Aunt Valerie’s tonight?”

Mary Margaret craned her head backwards to look at him. He worried she would see through such a blatant ploy, (she was Peggy’s child, after all,) but then she smiled. “Okay!”

He stifled a sigh of relief and stood up to carry her inside. “Good. You go pack while I call her. Only five toys!” he added as he deposited her at the foot of the stairs and she took off for her bedroom.

***

He’d tried to apologize to Valerie for the last-minute sleepover request, but she’d just waved it off. “I’m just happy you’re taking a night for yourself, Steve. We meant it when we said we were here to help. Besides,” she’d said, turning toward the sounds of chaos already erupting from the living room, “what’s one more kid?”

Of course, what he was doing with his night for himself was pacing the living room with the blinds drawn, hoping Sam would contact him with more news. He nearly injured himself diving for the phone when it rang.

“Hello?”

“Steve!” Not Sam.

“Oh. Hi, Natasha.”

“Well, if you’re going to take that tone with me, maybe I won’t invite to our place for dinner after all.”

“Dinner?”

“Yes, to thank you for babysitting Bucky the other day. I’m cooking!” There was scoffing from the background and the sound became slight muffled as if she’d turned away from the phone. “If you want to talk to Steve, you can call him yourself. This is my conversation.” Further derisive noises. Natasha voice became clear again. “Okay, fine, I will be cooking under Bucky’s instruction while he promises not to use his arm.”

“It’s safer for everyone involved,” Bucky said.

There was rustling and a faint “oof.” “Get _off_ me,” Natasha huffed. “Anyway, say you’ll come.”

“Sorry, I just… I probably wouldn’t be very good company tonight anyway.”

“What happened?” she asked, instantly serious.

“I, uh, got some unexpected news about Peggy.” If he kept things vague enough, he didn’t even have to lie, and he was so tired of all this.

Her voice sharpened. “Then you should _definitely_ come over.”

“Natasha, I know you mean well, but…”

“No, Steve, you should _really_ come over. I mean it.” She sounded oddly intense. He frowned, but then Sam’s words about going with his gut came back to him. They seemed applicable now, too.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll be there soon.”

“Good.” She hung up.

He stuffed his phone in his pocket, grabbed his jacket, and went.

***

Steve looked… explosive when he arrived, a look Bucky had never seen on him before. Fortunately, Natasha didn’t force him to pretend to be polite.

Instead, she practically pushed him onto one of the barstools on the other side of the breakfast bar from Bucky, which Bucky was sure everyone in the room recognized as a tactic to prevent him from running, and took the other stool for herself. Bucky stood over the stove, slowly stirring the soup with his good hand and watching everything from behind his hair. Nat was better at this part.

“We know Peggy isn’t dead.”

Granted, sometimes she used more tact than others.

Steve tensed to push up from the stool, looking like he was ready for a fight, and she held up a hand to forestall him.

“How do you know that? Who are you? What do you want?” Steve bit out.

“Just to help,” Bucky said, hoping he sounded a lot calmer than he actually felt. God, why would Steve ever trust them? Their lives were so weird, so ridiculous sounding, it’d be a miracle if he believed them at all, let alone accepted their help.

“This is going to take a little explaining, so just listen, okay?” Nat said, a pleading expression on her face Bucky knew to be highly effective.

Steve sat back and crossed his arms. That was probably as good as they were going to get.

“I became an orphan at a young age, but I was soon taken in by a very wealthy patron. This sounds bizarre in the modern world, I know, but…” she shrugged. “I was a child. I did not question it. It was just my life. He chose me because I already showed some promise in ballet. I don’t think that says much, since I was only six, but he insists there was a recognizable determination he wanted.” She reached over the counter and picked up the glass of wine she’d poured earlier. “My first goal was to get into the Bolshoi. He had connections, of course, but I was not allowed to slack. For those first years, he was just a very supportive, if exacting, patron of the arts.” She swirled the wine and took a swallow.

“But?” Steve asked, sounding interested despite himself.

“But as I got a bit older, I had special tutors added to my schedule. Comportment. Elocution. Things I was told I would need to blend into what he called ‘proper society.’ But when I spent a summer doing nothing but memory exercises, I finally asked.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “He was grooming you to be a spy.”

Nat tipped her head at him. “Not political, you understand. Just for him. The world of Russian oligarchs can be… fraught. He wanted insurance. A leg up. All information was potentially useful. And I, as a rising star, would be in a unique position to gather it for him.”

“Being a patron of the arts is prestigious, after all,” Bucky murmured.

She shot him a sardonic smile. “Exactly. So many people wanted to invite the charming young ballerina to their parties! Maybe she is a little shy, always encouraging the people around her to talk about themselves…” She trailed off, smiling demurely into her wine.

Bucky looked over and caught Steve observing her with something akin to horror on his face. “That’s just… so unnatural for you. Stop it.”

Bucky barked a laugh. “That’s what I said.”

Steve turned his attention to him. “And you?”

Bucky shrugged and looked back at the soup, letting his hair screen his face again. “Got recruited by her patron, too, after I got there. My mom appreciated the help with tuition.”

“Don’t let him fool you,” Nat said, tone dry, “he’s very good at putting pieces together. Like Peggy.”

Bucky refused to look over and see what Steve’s reaction to that was. He felt like he’d intruded without meaning to, but at the same time, Steve could use their help, whether he’d admit it or not, and Bucky refused to feel bad about possessing skills that might actually be useful here.

There was a knock at the door, and Nat rose to answer it. Bucky turned the burner under the soup off and settled to lean against the counter. This was undoubtedly going to be interesting.

“This is Clint,” she said, coming back into view tugging her annoying blond boyfriend by the wrist with one hand and signing sloppily with the other. Clint sent Bucky a little wave and then held out his hand to Steve.

“Hi there.”

“Uh, hi,” Steve said, looking back and forth between Clint and Nat.

“I’ve got my hearing aids in, don’t worry,” Clint said.

“Yeah, he just likes to turn ’em off sometimes and I don’t want him to have any excuses,” Nat said sweetly.

Clint flipped her off.

“Oh, that sign I know,” Steve said.

Clint grinned. “I like him.”

“So, not that it’s not nice to meet you and all, but why are you here?”

Clint put a hand to his chest, faux-wounded. “I? I am a delight, suitable for all occasions!”

Nat rolled her eyes. “More relevantly, he’s here because I had him do some asking around about what kind of trouble your Peggy might be in.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and Bucky stepped forward to put a hand on his arm. “He knows what he’s doing. He won’t have attracted the wrong kind of attention.”

“But Nat said he teaches circus arts.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think anyone here is exactly what they appear to be.”

Steve turned his considering gaze back to Clint. “So what else are you?”

“I have… a colorful past, and it wasn’t always very straight. Left me with some connections to the seedier side of life, let’s say.”

Steve tapped his fingers on the meat of his crossed arms in thought, then nodded sharply, clearly having decided he didn’t care where the information came from, as long as it was good. “So what did you find out?”

Clint looked longingly at the stove. “I was promised food…” he said pitifully.

Bucky pushed off the counter and reached for the plates. “Yeah, yeah. So demanding.”

Nat darted around the counter and smacked his hand before he so much as got the cabinet open. He glared. “I am not helpless.”

She pushed the plates into Clint’s hand and pointed Steve at the pot on the stove. “No, you’re not. That’s why you’re getting the silverware.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and did as he was told.

Once everything (soup, salad, bread, and a stroganoff which was dead easy to make and Bucky was convinced he could teach Nat how to make without killing them all, and yet he’d still had to save it from disaster no less that three times this afternoon) was all on the table, Nat sat down, reached for the nearest serving spoon, and took on what Bucky recognized as her debriefing voice. It had been a while since he’d heard it. He hadn’t really missed it.

“Steve, why don’t you go first, since you obviously know the most about the situation.” It wasn’t really a question.

***

Steve felt his shoulders square up, the soldier in him responding to something in her tone, and he saw a sardonic smile of recognition flit across Bucky’s face. Natasha must have been a terror to grow up with. Honestly, though, mostly Steve just felt relieved to be finally talking to people about it all.

“Peggy and I met in college, the pre-law student and the patriotic soldier, and we were gonna save the world. We got married right after graduation, and then I was deployed for most of her time in law school, but we talked all the time, about the things she was learning and the things I saw, and it made us both so _frustrated_ , the state of the world, you know, so it seemed only natural that she’d go into international law and public policy. She would be doing her best to fix the laws that I was out there being told I was trying to enforce. The UN ideal, or so we thought.”

He paused to take a sip of water, briefly wishing it was something stronger. “Turns out, even working with the UN isn’t very ideal. We both ended up being sent to Sokovia. ‘To render aid.’” Everyone around the table clearly heard the quotation marks there.

“Well, you know how well that went. By the time I was deployed back to the States, things were worse than when we’d gotten there. Peggy was equally unimpressed with her bosses’ decisions. We decided it was time for a change.” He shrugged. “We’d always planned for kids anyway. It seemed like the time.”

It had been such a strange juxtaposition, the decision to do something so inherently optimistic being borne from such extreme disillusionment. But he didn’t need to go into that. “Peggy moved to a less politically driven humanitarian aid firm and was clearly going to quickly advance. Rather than risk getting moved to a new base and screw that up for her, I got out and volunteered to be a work-from-home dad. I missed my art, and it wasn’t like she wasn’t making enough for us to live on. It suited us both.” And he smiled, because it really had. Those had been good years.

Bucky and Natasha were listening raptly, but Clint was starting to look a little fidgety. Steve shook himself out of reminiscence and tried to move it along. “Of course, Peggy was never one to leave anything alone. She kept taking cases related to Sokovia, determined to actually _do something_. And then this girl found her, Wanda, and her brother Pietro, I don’t even know how. They’d escaped from a trafficking ring. Apparently they’d been grabbed right off the street, Romani kids that the traffickers knew no one would make much of an effort to look for, not with everything else going on, and they’d been held captive for years.

“Peggy never told me all the details, and not even because of confidentiality concerns; she just said it’d make me too mad. She was building a case against the trafficking ring, but the more she looked into it, the bigger it got.” He sighed. “She never did have a ton of patience. I know she was being careful at first, but she must have done something to tip them off, because then the threats started. There was a really unsubtle message about how vulnerable Mary Margaret was. And then came the actual attempts on her life, at which point she apparently decided it was _necessary_ to fake her own death and got into hiding.”

He was pretty sure his tone of voice made his opinion of that plan clear.

“Anyway, we assume I’m being watched, so I live as normally as I can, and my friend at the FBI keeps an ear out, which is how I found out today that she’s now decided WITSEC is not for her and struck out on her own again.”

“Well, I guess that makes my intel make more sense,” Clint said. “Russian mob guy I talked to said there was some contract out to kidnap some brother and sister. Twins, apparently. I couldn’t figure out how that was related, but the two things kept coming up together.”

Steve slumped over his plate, forehead in hand. “Oh, Peg,” he muttered. Of course she wouldn’t stay put if she heard those kids were in trouble. He felt utterly exhausted all of a sudden.

“And are the Russians involved, or are they just taking the contract?” Natasha asked, still focused. Good thing someone was.

Clint shrugged. “Didn’t have enough to go on to dig deep,” he said around his food. “By the price tag, sounded like it was coming from someone high up.”

Nat wrinkled her nose at him for speaking with his mouth full, to absolutely not effect, and then turned to Bucky. “We should see what Boris can do for us.”

“Boris?” Steve asked.

“What we call our patron,” Bucky said. “Not actually his name. It was just a joke that stuck.”

“Had to go for the Rocky and Bullwinkle, huh?” Steve said, and Bucky actually looked kind of embarrassed.

Natasha sniffed and threw her hair over her shoulder. “I personally like being Natasha Fatale.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Bucky said, trying to get the conversation back on track, “are you sure that’s a good idea? You hate being in his debt.”

Natasha responded with a very self-satisfied smile. “Fortunately, he’s in mine right now.” Steve was missing so much backstory in this conversation, and by the look on Bucky’s face, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know it. “So,” she continued brightly, “who can we get to throw us a fancy party full of people with too much money and dubious underworld connections?”

“Well,” Steve said slowly, wheels starting to spin as he finally felt like there might be a plan coming together here, “my sister-in-law works at the British Embassy.”

Natasha blinked and he felt absurdly pleased that he’d actually surprised her. “You think you can get the British Embassy to throw you a party?”

“It’s for Peggy. Valerie will find a way to make it happen.”

***

Bucky shut the door behind Steve and his distracted thanks and took a deep breath. This was fine. Everything was fine.

“That wasn’t much of a goodbye,” Nat remarked from behind him.

He pushed his hair back and glared. “What should I have done, then? We spent the whole night planning how to rescue his wife.”

“Ex-wife.”

“By circumstance!” He threw his hands up. “You heard that story. She’s the only person he’s ever loved.”

“Buck…”

“Don’t push this, Nat. It’s fine. It’s not like he owes me anything.”

“But—”

“Let it go.”

He ignored the look Nat and Clint exchanged as he disappeared into his room.

***

Valerie and Michael took the news that Peggy was still alive suspiciously well, in Steve’s opinion.

“Oh, no,” Michael said pleasantly. “I absolutely want to kill her for putting us all through this. But I find myself utterly unsurprised at the same time. This is very much the kind of thing Peggy would do. Has always done.” He turned to look out the kitchen window, and Steve noted the telltale tightening of his jaw that denoted clenched teeth.

Valerie put a sympathetic hand on his back and left it there as she began seriously grilling Steve about what kind of gala she needed to make happen. Eventually he just gave her Natasha’s number and left them to it. They sent him off to coordinate with Sam and Bucky.

Steve hadn’t expected introducing the two of them to feel so weird. It felt like the “before” and “after” parts of his life were crashing into each other here in his suburban backyard.

“Sam, Bucky. Bucky, Sam.”

For all that Sam had been all gung-ho about the concept of Bucky when he was just someone Steve was potentially romantically interested in, he offered his hand awfully slowly. “Hey, man. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Bucky said easily.

Steve glared at Sam.

Bucky shot Steve a crooked grin. “It’s so weird, you know, people find out you’re a spy and suddenly they don’t trust you.”

And just like that, Steve felt his hackles go down. Bucky could handle Sam himself. They all had skills to bring to the table here. It was time they got down to it.

“How many people can you bring in?” Steve asked Sam.

Sam frowned and drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “There’s only so much I can do officially. Those WITSEC guys get real butt-hurt when they think another agency is trying to horn in on their territory. But you know I set up a rotation to keep an eye on the house and Mary Margaret. No shortage of old friends for that job.”

Steve nodded and specifically did not look across the street to where one of Sam’s buddies from the VA was reading a newspaper in his car. He’d been tailed on his way to pick Mary Margaret up from school yesterday, too. Quite expertly, at that.

His phone chimed with a message. “Tony’s flying in with Pepper.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “That guy. Well, it _is_ a party. He’s probably insulted you didn’t ask him to host it.”

Bucky cocked his head in inquiry. “Tony?”

“Stark,” Steve answered. Bucky’s eyes widened slightly. “Peggy did some work for one of his charities and he decided he liked her. Now we can’t get rid of him. But Natasha said we needed rich people with dubious connections, so.”

“Go big or go home,” Sam said with a sarcastic salute of his drink.

Bucky looked calculating. “Is he bringing tech with him?”

Sam snorted. “I don’t think he goes anywhere without half his lab. He’s flying in on his own plane, after all.”

“Hook him up with Clint. He’ll be running everything.”

Steve raised an eyebrow.

“He likes to stay high,” Bucky explained. “He says he gets a clearer picture when he’s out of the fray.” Then he seemed to remember they didn’t really know anything about Clint. “Oh, he’s an archer. Like, he does trapeze and aerial stuff for the circus arts school, but his real specialty was trick shooting. Sometimes it’s useful for more than just tricks. There was a whole thing with some people who tried to take over his apartment building,” he said with a wave of his hand, which explained precisely nothing.

Steve made a mental note to ask Clint about it later, when this was all over. It seemed like a story he’d enjoy. He needed some things to look forward to.

He looked over at Bucky and noted how he had chosen the chair farthest away from Steve, the way he was only looking at Steve in brief glances, and wondered if he’d managed to screw up the thing he’d most been looking forward to before it even started. He repressed a sigh and turned back to the task at hand: identifying the person behind the threats on Peggy and taking them out once and for all.

He could deal with everything else later.

***

“I brought you a date,” Tony said grandly as he ambled into Steve’s living room and made himself at home.

“Nice to see you again, too, Tony,” Steve said dryly.

“You’ll like her, I swear. She’s helping test new military stuff for me. Maria Hill.”

“I’m sure she’s very nice, but _why_ have you taken it upon yourself to bring me a date, Tony?”

Tony looked up from drawing idle patterns on the arm of Steve’s sofa in surprise, like his thought process should have been obvious to everyone around him. To be fair, Tony was always like this. Steve wished Pepper was here; she was a practiced Tony interpreter. “Because you need arm candy no one at the party will recognize! And no one knows Maria. She’s got this way of, like, disappearing into the background. It’s creepy.”

Given Tony had never wanted to disappear into the background of anything a day in his life, Steve could see how it might seem deeply unnatural to him.

“And I know you’re setting yourself up as bait and all,” Tony continued blithely, “but you should probably at least show up at the party looking like you think it’s just a normal social event. Camouflage and all that. I thought you special ops guys liked that kind of thinking.”

Steve crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows. “Bait?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Steve, I wasn’t born yesterday. And maybe I know the esteemed Peggy better than I know you, but I know how the two of you operated together. If you could parachute into the middle of this soiree with a target on your back to draw attention away from her, you would.”

Steve was never going to not find Tony deeply annoying. Helpful, yes, but deeply annoying.

“So I brought Maria to be your date. She’ll help you fit in, she been briefed on all the potential players, she can melt away at will, and she’ll be great backup. Plus I gave her a bunch of fun toys.”

Steve’s mild alarm at that last statement must have shown.

“Tested! Tested toys.” He sat forward earnestly, elbows on his knees. “I know how serious this is, Steve. I want Peggy back, too. We all do.”

Steve swallowed. “Thanks, Tony.”

Tony stood and clapped him on the back. “Great! Now, let’s talk about your tux situation.”

Deeply annoying.

***

Tony sent a limo, because of course he did, and Steve didn’t think Mary Margaret’s eyes could get any bigger.

“Are you going to a ball? Like Cinderella?”

Steve huffed a laugh. “Yeah, kind of like that. Hopefully the car won’t turn into a pumpkin at the end of the night, though.” Though with Tony’s cars, you never knew. He kissed her on the head. “You be good for Sharon.”

And the four special ops buddies watching the house, not that either girl needed to know about that.

“Okay, Daddy.”

He turned to wave one last time as he got in the car, and then the door closed on his normal life.

“Cute kid,” the dark-haired woman on the other side of the back seat said. She was wearing an elegant evening gown and did indeed look stunning, and Steve realized he would never be able to describe her to anyone later with anything but the most generic of terms. It was actually rather impressive. She held out her hand. “Maria Hill. Here’s your earbud.”

“Uh. Steve Rogers.”

“I know,” she said with a smile. “I’ve been briefed.”

“Apparently better than I have.”

“I like to be prepared.” She pointed to the tiny device in Steve’s hand. “Put that in and Clint can fill you in. He’s apparently our eyes in the sky.”

Steve chose to take her tone of grudging acceptance as a sign their plan might be sound after all.

***

Bucky had never exactly _enjoyed_ all the parties they attended in Russia, but at the same time, he felt weirdly at home, dressed to the nines next to Nat again, hair braided back because he’d let her get complicated with it, champagne in hand. And above all, that rushing feeling of adrenaline as they subtly scanned the room, alert to the slightest hint of information. (Of course, maybe part of the rush this evening was the sight of Steve in a tux, because that was proving to be _very_ distracting even from across the room. _Focus, man_.)

Bucky turned his attention back to the task at hand. He still didn’t know precisely why Boris was currently in Nat’s debt; the two of them had an odd relationship years longer than Bucky’s appearance on the scene, and he’d never really figured out if it was truly antagonistic or just a weirdly competitive student/mentor thing, but in any case, it was working in their favor at the moment. How Boris managed to get so much information about people with an interest in human trafficking, Bucky really didn’t know, but Nat had seemed unsurprised. She’d just shrugged and said, “They pissed him off. He takes human trafficking very personally. He’s been wanting to take these people down for a while now.”

And sure, maybe Boris had adopted an orphan so he could mold her into his own perfect spy, but Nat had never wanted for anything. Through Boris’s own skewed, overly wealthy perspective, it made sense, he supposed.

Clint’s voice came over the comms. “That Nazi jerk is here. Strucker.”

Bucky looked away from Steve (again) and scanned the room until he spotted him. “Ten o’clock,” he murmured to Nat. Strucker was at the top of their list. Certain things Clint had heard on the street pointed more strongly in his direction than any of the others. Sam and Maria had both pored over the other backgrounds Boris had sent and Bucky knew they (and Tony and the extremely competent-seeming Pepper, who he’d met briefly) were spread out around the room to try to keep everyone equally covered, but Bucky and Nat were sure it was Strucker.

The man had a long, and by all appearances entirely unapologetic, history of chillingly casual racist statements regarding groups he considered “inferior” and had actually voiced his approval of the idea of taking children to be raised in “superior” households. From what they’d pieced together from both Clint’s intel and Boris’s gossip, it appeared he’d bought the Maximoffs to serve as Romani proof of his views, and he was determined to get them back. No matter the cost, judging by the contract Clint’s idiot contact had bragged about.

Just as Nat was turning to get eyes on Strucker herself, a woman in a red dress appeared behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Goddammit, Peggy,” Steve hissed over the comms.

***

This was not part of their plan. Not that Steve was surprised; when had a planned engagement ever run smoothly? Time to adapt.

Peggy, of course, having _no_ sense of self-preservation whatsoever, was letting Strucker lead her into the garden.

“Clint, who do we have outside?”

“Uh, embassy people are supposed to be out there… I’m not seeing as many as I should, though. Our own people are all inside. This was just supposed to be information-gathering.”

Yeah, well, clearly _that_ plan was shot straight to hell. Steve didn’t have time for this; he was the closest to the doors anyway. “I’m on it.” He started making his way through the crowd as politely as possible, absently noting that Maria had apparently slipped away at some point. He hadn’t even noticed.

Not his problem. Keeping Peggy from getting herself killed, _that_ was his problem.

He thought he heard someone say something about backup, but he was already slipping through the French doors onto the terrace.

“I see the rumors of your death were rather exaggerated,” Strucker was saying as Steve came within hearing range, like that wasn’t the most clichéd line ever. “Pity. I paid good money for that.”

“You stay away from the Maximoffs, Strucker. I’ll come back from the dead as many times as it takes to make sure they stay safe.”

“Oh, pretty Peggy, they are already as good as mine. And this time, I will make sure you stay dead myself.”

Steve barely registered Strucker starting to reach inside his jacket before his mind was screaming “Gun!” and he was grabbing a tray intended for empty glasses off the table next to the door.

“Peggy, get down!” he yelled as he hurled the tray edge-on, aiming for Strucker’s hand in the hopes it would knock the gun away, but willing to take any distraction he could get.

She flung herself sideways into a hedge as Strucker yelped in pain but sadly did not drop the gun. He fired.

***

“Well, he definitely isn’t waiting for backup, guys,” Clint said conversationally in Bucky’s ear.

“How long until you can get in position?” Nat asked.

“Already moving,” Clint said.

“And where the hell is his supposedly super helpful date?” Bucky growled, trying to plot the fastest course across the room to the doors Steve had just disappeared through.

There was a second of silence and then Clint came back. “Dunno, she’s not answering. _Oh shit_. Well, this is bad.”

“What?” Bucky demanded as Nat steered them around another clump of the useless, irritating people who apparently existed only to get in their way.

“There’s, uh, there’s some other guys up here,” Clint said, slightly out of breath. “Think Strucker brought some friends.”

“Sam, where the hell are you?” Bucky demanded.

“I’m on it!” came Sam’s voice, and out of the corner of his eye, Bucky caught a glimpse of someone booking it up the stairs.

They were almost at the doors, _finally_ , when they heard Steve yell, “Peggy, get down!”

Bucky spun Nat up against the wall next to the doors. There was a clanging noise, and then a gunshot.

They glanced at each other, making and discarding plans in an instant. “You get to Steve, I’ll get Peggy,” Nat said.

Bucky nodded sharply and opened the door.

***

Either Strucker wasn’t a very good shot in an adrenaline-fueled situation, or Steve had actually hit him hard enough to throw his aim off; Steve didn’t really care which as the bullet hit the brick of the building behind him.

How had Strucker even gotten a gun in here? Intelligence-gathering mission, Steve’s ass. He was taking Tony up on his offer of “toys” next time. _Let there not be a next time_.

Steve was crouching on the terrace, looking around for something else he could use before Strucker got himself under control enough to actually aim, when the doors opened behind him and a person came flying out. _Bucky_ , he registered, and then watched in shock as the other man seemed to glide across the flagstones of the terrace with impossibly long strides, and then he was doing some kind of death-defying leap into a spin off the stairs, straight into Strucker.

They both crashed to the ground, and Steve sprang toward them, frantically straining to locate the gun. Had Strucker dropped it? Did he still have it?

Another shot rang out, this time from above. A bullet struck the grass mere inches from the tangle of Strucker and Bucky. Steve dodged to the side.

“Oh, _hell_ no,” muttered Sam over the comms, and then there was a scream.

“Oh, look, Sam’s here,” Clint said, all unruffled cheer again.

Trusting Sam to have things taken care of, Steve dove toward the men on the ground again. A knife flashed and Bucky cried out. Strucker scrambled away from him, heading toward the back of the garden. Before he made it three steps, an arrow streaked through the air and hit him in the shoulder. He staggered.

It was enough for Steve to catch up with him. “Just _go down!_ ” Steve said, spinning Strucker by his other shoulder and delivering to a solid, old-fashioned uppercut to the man’s chin, trying to pack all the pent up rage and frustration of the past year in the punch. Strucker went down like a puppet with its strings cut.

Threat at least temporarily neutralized, Steve whirled around, desperate to get eyes on Bucky. He fell to his knees in the grass next to him. “Where did he cut you? How bad is it? Let me see,” he demanded.

Bucky let out a helpless, slightly hysterical laugh.

Steve froze, hands hovering over Bucky, not sure where he could touch him without inadvertently hurting him. “What? What is it?”

“He got that same goddamn arm,” Bucky finally managed.

Relief rolled over Steve so strongly he nearly went limp. He sat on the grass with a thump and pulled Bucky carefully up until he could rest against Steve’s chest while Steve tried to help keep pressure on the wound. People were suddenly pouring out through the terrace doors, and Steve realized it had only been minutes since he’d followed Peggy out here.

Peggy! He lifted his head to look for her, and there she was, being helped out of the hedge by Natasha. Their eyes met, for the first time in half a year.

“Steve, I…”

But then Maria Hill led a swarm of people in suits into the garden and they crossed between them, cutting him off from Peggy. Again. Whatever she was going to say, though, was lost in the flurry of Strucker being placed under arrest, the rest of his accomplices being rounded up, Tony making a giant scene in an attempt to distract the ambassador from the chaos that had ensued at what he had been assured was simply a cultural evening (and then Pepper and Valerie stepping in to actually smooth things over), and a medic being called to look at Bucky’s arm. When Steve next tried to find her, she’d already been whisked away.

*******

**Two days later**

Steve leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and watched as Peggy walked around his studio, looking at what was new since the last time she’d been there. Months and months ago now. Steve was a little startled to realize just how long it had actually been. It was odd, he thought. He used to thrill at how perfect she looked in his space, at how she would glow in the sunlight, as if the beams could follow her.

Now she just looked out of place.

He could see she felt it, too. She looked up from leafing through his sketchbook and gave him a sad, wry smile before moving on to his easel.

“Ah,” was all she said.

He pushed off the doorframe and came to stand beside her.

“He’s lovely.”

Steve flushed. Peggy noticed, of course, but she just smiled as she reached up and cupped his cheek. “Darling, don’t you know I’m happy for you?”

His jaw clenched beneath her palm. “Maybe I don’t want you to be.”

She sighed and lowered her hand, and her gaze, to his chest, just over his heart. “We had quite a journey together, didn’t we? But, Steve,” and here she looked up and caught his eyes again, serious, clear-eyed, sure, “I think we both know our paths are diverging. We’re not on the same road anymore. And that’s okay.”

“We were supposed to be forever.” Steve’s thumb instinctively touched the space where his wedding ring had been, startled all over again at the feeling of naked skin.

“I know. But I think maybe our forever is different than we thought it would be. And maybe,” she glanced over her shoulder at the easel, where the painting of Bucky caught mid-flight stood, “there’s another one waiting for you anyway.”

Steve swallowed hard. “Are you ever sorry?”

She frowned. “I couldn’t have done anything differently. I still can’t. This thing, it’s still so big. I can’t let it go. I have to do what’s right. For Wanda and Pietro, but also for all the others. You know that.”

He held up a placating hand. “No, I know that. That’s not what I meant. I just… Are you ever sorry about the divorce? About leaving us like that?”

She looked back up at him, wounded. “Of course I am! I didn’t do that lightly. I could never. But I didn’t think I’d ever get to see you, either of you, again, and I didn’t want to hold you back. You deserve a future, Steve.”

“I would have waited for you.”

“I know. And that’s why I had to do it. You can be so stupidly loyal.”

“Isn’t that what love is?” Steve asked, stung.

“I’m not saying it’s not one of your finer qualities. And I will always love you, too. But if I hadn’t done something so final, knowing as I did that I would likely never see you again, you would have waited. Forever. And I loved you too much to let you do that.”

“Past tense, huh?”

“And present.” She leaned up to kiss his cheek. “Love can change, Steve, just like our dreams. We didn’t know everything the future would hold back when we fell in love at twenty, and that’s okay.”

He drew her into his embrace and allowed himself to breathe in the familiar smell of her shampoo one more time. Over the top of her head, he gazed at the painting of Bucky.

***

“You have to come back to work sometime,” Nat said, a dramatically backlit silhouette standing in the middle of his bedroom doorway.

He slid further down his pile of pillows and grunted. “I’m injured.”

“You can’t avoid him forever.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh. Well, if you don’t come back to work, I’m going to have to get Patrice to help choreograph the spring recital.”

He sat up. “That’s playing dirty.”

She shrugged and turned away with a flounce. “Then come back to work.”

He groaned and threw off his covers.

***

Steve was waiting in the chairs outside Mary Margaret’s studio like always, of course. If it weren’t for Bucky’s arm throbbing faintly in a new and different way in his sling, he could almost believe it had all never happened. But it had. Steve had Peggy back.

He tried to remind himself to breathe normally when Steve looked up and caught his eye, but what came out was definitely shaky.

“Bucky,” Steve said. Warmly. Happily.

Bucky didn’t need this.

He swallowed. “Steve.”

Steve’s smile faltered and he stood, taking a step toward Bucky, hand tentatively outstretched. “Are you okay?”

Bucky blinked and looked away. “I’m fine. Healing up nicely. Uh, how’s Peggy?”

“Settling in, I hear.”

Bucky looked back at him sharply. “You hear?”

“She’s in London now. For her new job. She left as soon as she got the Maximoffs settled into their new safe house. It’s this new cross-border task force trying to track down the trafficking ring. Her boss is even named Fury. It’s perfect for her.” His brow furrowed. “Did Nat really not tell you?”

So she was “Nat” to Steve now, too. Bucky turned to glare in the direction of the dance studio. “No, she did not.”

“Bucky.” Steve sounded so earnest, so serious. Bucky turned back to him. “I don’t… I don’t know what it is we have, but I just… I wanted you to know. I mean, I’ll always love Peggy, but we’re not… we’re not getting back together or anything. We’re not the same people we were back then, and I think… we’re both okay with that now.”

Bucky didn’t know what to say to that.

Steve took another step and let his fingers brush against Bucky’s. “I like who I am now. And I kinda think I’d like to see who I could be with you. If you want.”

Bucky ducked his head so his hair would fall across his face. Steve reached up to brush it back, and Bucky let himself push into the contact. “Yeah,” he said. “I think I’d like that, too.”

***

Steve thought his heart would stop for a second when Bucky looked away. He’d been so sure Bucky wanted this, too, but he was painfully aware of all the things they’d never done, never said, before the whole Peggy situation had come up. What if he’d read it wrong? He could have read it wrong. It’s not like he had a ton of experience; he’d been with Peggy since he was barely twenty.

But then it all became clear. Bucky thought… Oh, Steve could just kill Nat.

He knew there were words coming out of his mouth as he practically tripped over his tongue trying to explain, but he was barely aware of them. And then he risked touching Bucky’s hand, and he felt like he was flying.

Then Bucky did that thing he did with his hair when he was embarrassed or uncomfortable, and Steve had to see his face, had to make sure. He pushed the hair back gently, letting his fingers slip through it the way he’d wanted to for so long, and suddenly the world settled. His heart was still soaring, but he felt grounded in himself for the first time in a long time, exquisitely aware of everything about the moment as Bucky pressed back into his fingers and let his eyes flutter shut for just a second.

“I think I’d like that, too,” Bucky breathed, and Steve let the hand in Bucky’s hair tug him closer until they were finally, finally kissing…

A suddenly louder cry of “five, six, seven, _eight_ , now! one, two, three, four…” reminded him abruptly that they were kissing in the extremely public hallway of his daughter’s ballet school, where a horde of other parents was shortly to descend, and while he was not in any way, shape, or form embarrassed at the idea of being caught kissing Bucky, he was overcome by a fierce disinclination to share this moment with anyone else.

He drew back and smiled at the faint look of distress on Bucky’s face as he did so. “Come home with me tonight?”

Bucky blinked a few times as he came back to their surroundings. “Yes,” he said immediately, and then, “But what about Mary Margaret? Will she be okay with that?”

Just then the door to the studio opened and Mary Margaret came tumbling out. “Mr. James! You’re back! Miss Natasha said you’re going to help our class with our dance.”

Bucky smiled down at her. “You know, she told me that, too. Guess I’d better help, huh?”

She nodded. “Yes, now you have to.”

Steve crouched down in front of her. “Hey, Peanut. Do you think Bucky should come home with us tonight?”

She looked up at Bucky hopefully. “Yes! We can get pizza! And I will share my M&Ms with you,” she added magnanimously, “because you’re hurt.”

“Thank you,” Bucky said, as seriously as he could, though Steve could see the edges of a giddy grin trying to break through. He recognized it because he was experiencing the same thing. “I couldn’t possibly turn down an offer like that.”

So Steve took Bucky and his daughter home, and watched them eat pizza and M&Ms together, solemnly dividing them up by color and then eating them in order, turning identical horrified eyes at Steve when he asked what the point of that was, and everything felt _right_.

They ended up putting Mary Margaret to bed together, largely because she wouldn’t let go of either of their hands on the way up the stairs, and her bedtime story ended up being Bucky’s retelling of the story of _Giselle_ , which, had Steve known it beforehand, might not have been his first choice, but Mary Margaret was fascinated and fell asleep mumbling about how nice it was that all the ghosts were happy now.

Steve raised his eyebrows at Bucky as he gently closed her bedroom door behind them. “Really? _Giselle_?”

Bucky flushed high on his cheekbones and tried to hide behind his hair again. “It was the first one with a coherent storyline I could think of! All the fairy tales I know anymore are actually ballets. Nat was a really excellent lovesick ghost.”

Steve looked back at him over his shoulder as he led them back down to the living room. “Yeah? Did she save you from the Wilis?”

“She did.” Bucky pulled Steve to a stop when they got to the bottom of the stairs, hands resting on Steve’s hips. “I don’t think it would work anymore, though.”

Steve pulled Bucky closer so he could wrap his own arms around him. “Why’s that?”

“I’m more interested in someone else’s love now.” And his cheeks turned red again, but he didn’t look away.

Steve raised hand to cup the side of Bucky’s face, this thumb running over the cheekbone. Steve’s own face felt hot enough that he was pretty sure he was equally red, and he didn’t care. “I feel like we’ve been dancing around this for a long time now, don’t you?”

Bucky glared at him even as he leaned into Steve’s touch. “That was a terrible joke, and I hope you understand how much I like you that I’m going to kiss you anyway.”

This resulting kiss was kind of terrible because Steve was laughing into it, but they got better. Bucky didn’t make it home that night, so they had plenty of time to practice.

***

**Two months later**

Steve was waiting by the stage door when Bucky opened it, though he didn’t notice at first, distracted as he was by trying to keep twenty giggling kids quiet until they could get to their seats in the auditorium to watch the older classes perform their recital pieces, too. He breathed a sigh of relief as the last one cleared the door into the hallway and one of the parents on volunteer duty took over shepherding them. Then Mary Margaret grabbed his hand, and he looked up to find Steve smiling at them from across the hall.

He came forward and solemnly handed his daughter a bouquet of pink carnations and baby’s breath. “For my star. You did such a good job, baby.”

Mary Margaret looked at the flowers in awe. Then she looked up at Bucky. “Like a real ballerina!”

“Yup,” he confirmed. “Flowers at the stage door, just like a real ballerina.”

She beamed and hugged them carefully to her chest.

“Why don’t you take them to your seat so you can see the other performances?” Steve suggested, and she ran off after the rest of her class, the class parent looking harried as she waited for the stragglers.

As she disappeared back into the auditorium, Steve turned back to Bucky and handed him the other bouquet he was carrying. “For the choreographer.”

Bucky felt tears welling up from nowhere as he looked down at the bouquet, the same carnations and baby’s breath combination pretty much every beginning ballet student would be getting tonight, and he blinked rapidly to banish them. It was so stupid; he’d gotten countless bouquets over the course of his career, and had long since graduated to receiving real roses, not to mention a few more exotic creations that he could recall, but this was like getting his first one all over again.

He realized he’d thought he’d never get another bouquet again, when he retired from the stage. Was forced to retire by his stupid shoulder. He’d been in mourning for that life for so long now. And now these stupid carnations were hitting him like sun breaking through clouds.

Steve reached out and brushed away a tear that had managed to escape anyway.

“Thank you,” Bucky said, and hoped Steve somehow heard everything behind it.

By the depth of Steve’s answering kiss, he thought he had.

The flowers ended up in a vase. On the bedside table at Steve’s house, where Bucky could see them when he woke up.

**Author's Note:**

> -Fun fact: Bucky's shoulder injury is my shoulder injury. Left arm and everything. I even got it in a dance class, after a decade of injury-free martial arts practice. The issue is a permanently too-stretched ligament across the front of the shoulder joint, which allows the ball to slip partway out of the socket. I gave Bucky the more extreme version of the repair surgery (which they didn't want to do to me because girls apparently care more about scarring than being able to use their fucking arm?), but everything else is pretty much taken directly from my experience. (I didn't get a dramatic tattoo, though. Yet. Am I thinking about it now? ...maybe.)
> 
> -Бублик: Russian bagel cracker thing (boo-blik), Nat’s mistaken nickname for Bucky when they first meet.  
>  **Nat:** Oh, hey, you again. What did you say your name was again? Бублик?  
>  **Bucky:** No, I definitely did not say it was that. Bucky. It's Bucky.  
>  **Nat:** *waves a hand airily* Close enough. It had most of the same sounds.  
>  **Nat:** *continues to call him that for the next decade and a half just to annoy him*


End file.
